


The Art of Giving

by cenotaphy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: And I mean a buttload of misunderstandings, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Castiel is a Sweetheart, Christmas, Dean is a Little Shit, Emotionally Constipated Dean, Established Relationship, Gift Giving, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misunderstandings, Sam Is So Done, Sam Ships It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 15:34:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9391187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cenotaphy/pseuds/cenotaphy
Summary: Amara's gone, the world didn't end, Dean didn't blow up, and he and Cas—well, they're working it out. It's the holiday season and everything is looking up. Except Dean should have known he'd mess it up somehow.Canon-divergent from the end of season 11.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [randomdestielfangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomdestielfangirl/gifts).



> The events of season 11 are intact except that Mary Winchester is not brought back and the British Men of Letters do not show up.
> 
> To the recipient: I tweaked one of your prompts a little but I hope it still meets the essence of what you were hoping for!

"Dammit, Sam, are you kidding me?"

Sam ambles into the kitchen, dressed in what Dean would assume were running clothes, if he didn't happen to know that it's fucking freezing outside this morning, cold even by the usual standards of the last Thursday of November. "What?"

Dean holds up the empty milk jug. "You used this up and then put it back in the fridge? What's wrong with you?"

"I was in a hurry," Sam objects. "I was going to throw it out later. So? What's the big deal?"

Dean swears under his breath. " _So_ , I just went for groceries yesterday and now I'll have to go back out for milk—"

Cas appears in the doorway, his hair disheveled the way it is most mornings these days. "What's going on?" he says.

"Sam's a goddamn savage in a leopard-skin, is what," says Dean, chucking the jug into the trash where it belongs. "I should make  _you_  drive out to look for a grocery store that's open on Thanksgiving—"

"Can't. Going for a run." Sam stretches briskly. "We can go for a day without milk."

"Do you want mashed potatoes or not?" snaps Dean, which shuts his frost giant of a brother up. "Yeah, that's what I thought." He points at Cas. "Get in the Impala, sunshine. We're going to the grocery store."

***

Dean's pissed at Sam for the milk jug travesty, but it's hard to stay mad with Cas smiling at him from the passenger seat. And, despite how much he'd chewed Sam out, he has to admit that it's nice to take a drive with just Cas. Even if it's only to the store. He reaches over and laces his fingers through Cas's and they go like that for a while, in comfortable silence.

It's all so _new_ , is what it is. Dean marvels at it, at the fact that he's able to sit here and simply trace his thumb over the back of Cas's hand. He still hasn't really processed it, he supposes. Wanting something for years, never thinking you'll ever have it, and then—well, nearly getting blown up to save the world is a bit of a catalyst, he supposes.

He'd made it back to the bunker, his arms scratched up from fighting through the fucking forest of bramble bushes Amara had decided to go sulk in the middle of, his dead phone a useless brick in his pocket. Made it back, to find Sam passed out over an empty handle of whiskey, and Cas sitting across from him at the war room table, staring at nothing at all.

"Cas," Dean had croaked, descending the stairs.

The look in Cas's eyes, when he jerked upright and whipped around, had broken Dean. Or, maybe more accurately, it had broken something loose inside him. Because then he was moving toward Cas, and Cas was moving toward him, and it had been like they'd been inexorably hurtling toward that moment for years—

—and the next couple minutes were just Cas's arms wrapped tightly around him, Cas's head buried against his shoulder, Dean desperately inhaling the smell of Cas, the _solidity_ of him—

—and Cas gasping out "I thought—I thought—" and Dean whispering "I know—I know—" and his hands on the back of Cas's neck and their foreheads pressed together and then, with what Dean could have sworn was the sound of cathedral bells,  _at last at last_ , their mouths—

—and there'd been that one moment, immediately after they'd pulled apart, a split second fraught with awful possibility, because it had held the potential for all of it to go horribly wrong, for Dean to absolutely fuck it up. But the world gave them one more miracle, and it let Dean smile. And Cas had smiled back. At  _him_. At _Dean_.

"Go with me, Cas?" he'd whispered.

"— _yes_ , Dean."

Of course, they hadn't  _actually_  gone anywhere, because Dean had to wake up his little brother, and then there were more hugs, an overwhelming number of them actually, and Sam practically in tears, drunk off his Sasquatch ass and hanging onto Dean's neck like he was friggin' six years old again, and Dean had had to put him to bed—a lengthy process involving a soothing voice and repeated promises that no, he was not a dream, that yes, he'd be there in the morning, that of course, everything was okay—and so nothing more had ended up happening that night.

And—they're taking it slow. Because it's only been a week and a half, and Dean's desperate not to mess this up, because he might be clueless about a lot of things but he's knows that Cas is the best thing that's ever happened to him, and  _being_  with Cas—? He can't let himself ruin that. He won't.

But he leaves his door ajar, nights now, and lies awake in the dark, until Cas comes padding down the hall from his room. Lies awake in the dark, listening to Cas removing his coat and suit and shoes with slow and careful movements. Lies awake until Cas slides into bed beside him and their hands find each other under the sheets.

And in the mornings he gets to roll over onto his side and kiss Cas out of sleep, or whatever it is Cas seems to be able to do to approximate sleep, and yeah, they haven't done more yet, but for once Dean isn't in a hurry, he's content to revel in the slowness of it, in the carefulness, because it's all new and incredible and wonderful and  _terrifying_  and he  _will not_  ruin it.

He hasn't said anything to Sam. ("I just—" he'd confessed to Cas, the two of them hiding under the sheets like they're kids, because it was easier to try to confess these things, these fears and insecurities, if he's pretending to be a child again, "I know he'd be cool, but it's just—" and he hadn't been able to fit his whole harsh unyielding upbringing into a sentence, but Cas had only held his hands and nodded and kissed the lack of words from his trembling jaw.)

So they keep off each other when Sam's around, though Dean can't resist brushing his hand along Cas's back in passing, stealing quick kisses in the hallway, and it's nice to get a quiet half-hour alone like this, just  _being_.

***

The half-hour turns longer because their normal grocery store is closed, and Dean has to drive halfway across town to find a store that carries milk and the other things he's remembered he might as well pick up, since he's out. It's a quick foray, though—fifteen minutes from when they pull into the tiny parking lot to when they're back and Dean's dropping the bag (contents: milk, cinnamon, parsley flakes, a box of microwave popcorn, a bag of that organic air-popped shit that Sam loves and Dean pretends not to like) into Baby's trunk.

When he looks up, Cas is staring across the street at some kind of art store.

"See something you like?" says Dean, closing the trunk.

Cas tilts his head in a way that makes Dean want to pull him in for a kiss. The November wind can't redden Cas's cheeks any more than Dean supposes it can make him feel cold, but it's ruffled his dark hair into an even more tousled state than it had been in this morning. "It looks interesting. Can we investigate?"

They hold hands crossing the street.

***

The store is called  _Polished_  or something ridiculous like that, and it looks like it's part studio, part actual shop. There are glass-blown sculptures and vases and knickknacks everywhere. Long spinning wind twisters and chimes dangling from the ceiling. Little glass globes filled with colored blobs, resting on tiny bookcases. Strings of beads and tooled leather charms covering the counter where the cash register is. The place is a riot of swirled color. Dean's afraid to walk past the tiny cleared area of the entryway, for fear of breaking absolutely everything.

It's pretty clear what drew Cas's attention; he immediately goes to stand over by the front window, next to a mosaic of jumbled flyers and advertisements, staring at a dangling mobile of irregular glass shards—green and midnight blue, mostly, a few purple and fuchsia ones glinting in the steely November light.

"The owner makes everything," says the slightly bored-looking teenager who's sitting behind the counter with a paperback. She lifts a pierced eyebrow and cranes her head back to stare at Cas. "Oy, you got questions? I'd call her out here, but she's in the back annealing, can't interrupt that."

"Right," says Dean slowly, looking around the shop. He skates his hand through the air an inch above one of the sculptures. The glass flows like water, held frozen in a rippling curl of color and light.

Cas comes up to him a few minutes later, in a corner of the shop where Dean is standing, studying a row of vases. Dean can hear pages turning and knows the girl's gone back to her book.

"You liked that mobile, huh?" says Dean. Their shoulders bump together.

"The colors are nice," says Cas, sounding almost wistful. "It reminded me of the aurora, of flying through it."

" _Aurora australis_ , that is," he adds after a beat. "The Northern counterpart had a little less violet."

"You miss flying," says Dean quietly.

"Always," says Cas, and that's all he says, but it's enough to make Dean want to take his hand again. He doesn't—the rustling of pages has stopped and he isn't sure he's ready for that, to face the world and say  _yes, this is me, this is who I am_. He will be, he wants to be, but—not yet.

"And you've been staring at these vases," says Cas after another moment.

"Oh—yeah." Dean feels himself reddening a little. The three vases are the size of hubcaps, ovoid and flattened along the vertical axis; they look like large elliptical seeds, resting upright on their small white plinths. One is mostly blue, one mostly yellow, one striated in cream and mahogany. All have price tags with a dizzying number of zeroes. "They—uh, this is stupid, but they remind of a vase my mom used to have."

"Your mother?" Cas sounds surprised.

"Yeah. Back—before. You know." He's been remembering odd details like that, ever since the soul bomb. As if having all that light in his chest shook memories loose, things from way back, things he'd forgotten. He remembers what doing the Trials had dredged up in Sam's head; maybe it's a little like that. "It was a huge thing—I think it was a present from Dad? Don't remember. But it used to be in our dining room. She kept flowers in it. I wasn't allowed to touch it." He grins, shakes his head. "Probably smart, considering I was four."

"You miss your mother," says Cas.

"Always," Dean echoes, and nudges Cas with his elbow. "Come on, let's get going."

***

He lets Cas get into the car first and then slaps his pocket. "Crap—left my wallet in there. Be right back."

He hasn't left his wallet in the store, of course, and he doesn't make any pretense at looking for it. Instead he takes the aurora mobile down from its hook by the window and gives it to the teenager to wrap up for him.

"Early Christmas present for the bf?" she asks, shrouding it in filmy tissue paper and slipping it into a plain paper bag.

"We're just friends," says Dean, and could kick himself for the lie, but it's such a knee-jerk reaction that he knows he had no chance of stopping it even if he had the balls to try.

"Right," she drawls. "Well—have a nice Thanksgiving with your, uh, friend."

***

"You didn't forget your wallet," Cas accuses, as Dean gets into the car.

"Nope." Dean shoves the bag at him. "Here. Happy Thanksgiving."

Cas pokes through the tissue paper and his eyes go bright and soft. "You went back and bought it. Why?"

"It's a gift."

"A gift," Cas echoes. "I wasn't expecting you to—"

"Yeah, well, it's all about the surprise factor, man."

"Is it?" Cas is smiling now, a warm, melting expression that makes Dean squirm slightly in his seat, because no way does he deserve a smile like that, nor will he ever. "Thank you, Dean. You didn't have to."

"I know. But, uh—sometimes humans don't like to say their feelings. Out loud. You know."

"Ah, I see. You are like that. Very much so."

"...right. No chick flick moments. So—we give gifts, instead. To show instead of tell." He waits.  _Please understand. Please understand that even though I can't say it I_ —

Cas leans over and kisses him, light and cool like a flake of snow. "I understand."

***

Later that night, they're lying in the dark with their ankles touching and their fingers entwined. Dean's sleepy with beer and with the sheer amount of food he's consumed.

"D'you hang up the thingy?" he yawns.

"In my room," says Cas, and he sounds so freaking  _happy_ , it's ridiculous.

"Good." Dean turns onto his side so that he can press his nose against Cas's bare shoulder. Cas had lingered in the kitchen with him all afternoon, and his skin smells like pie dough and rosemary and nutmeg, but underneath there's still the wilder, snow-cold scent of _Cas_. "You need more decorations, it looks like we're keeping you in a prison cell, not a bedroom."

Cas's shoulder twitches, a miniscule shrug that bumps it against Dean's cheek. "Perhaps I do. I've always liked the solidity that humans build into their memories. The way you anchor everything in the physical. Photographs, letters, things—angels don't have that. All we have is what's in our heads, and when that's gone..." He trails off. For a moment his breath goes a little shaky.

Of course, Dean thinks. Memory, for Cas, is a fragile, violated thing, carved out of him who knows how many times by the dicks upstairs. It's no wonder he'd be drawn to physical mementos.

"Hey." He pulls their clasped hands out from under the sheets, kisses the tip of Cas's index finger. "That's not all you have. You've got us. Me. And a shit ton of leftovers in the fridge. We're not going anywhere."

Cas snorts with laughter, but his voice is earnest. "Thank you, Dean."

Dean swallows hard, closes his eyes. He's not used to being thanked like this. He's used to being thanked after a hunt, to the gratitude of people whose lives he's helped save. He doesn't know what to do with  _this_ , with Cas's gratitude. It's not something he deserves. He ought to be thanking _Cas_ , not the other way around—but the things he's grateful for tonight are so immense that he doesn't know how to voice any of them.

"Okay, I lied," he says instead. Cas turns toward him in the dark. "Cas. I gotta be honest. The leftovers are probably not going to stick around."

***

Later, when Dean thinks about it, he decides that it was at the diner when everything started to go wrong. They'd been on their way back from a hunt in Oklahoma, and since they'd finally finished off the last of the Thanksgiving leftovers he'd pulled into a little place by the side of the road one town over.

What happens is that he gets careless. The hunt had gone well. Cas had been in gorgeous, deadly form during the final fight, Dean and Sam had been a bit scratched up but nothing angel mojo hadn't been able to fix, and Dean is giddy with their success, with the heady wine of survival. He throws an arm around Cas's shoulders as they enter the diner, trailing Sam, who's groaning and shaking his head at a truly filthy joke Dean's just told. And Dean's laughing too—yes, at his own joke, it was that good—and even Cas is grinning a little—not the sad and careful smile Dean's seen on his face dozens of times if he's seen it once, but the rare, relaxed one, teeth and spontaneity and _happiness_ —

"Third-wheeling tonight, are we?" says the hostess to Sam, her own smile indulgent, knowing.

"We're not together," Dean blurts. His arm slips off Cas so fast he isn't even aware of moving it. Cas doesn't react; he's gone perfectly still, looking straight ahead. "We're not—"

Dean knows he's panicking, even as it's happening. He wants to take the words back as soon as they're out of his mouth, but the heat is rushing to his face and he isn't ready and  _Sam doesn't know_  and three decades of conditioning are weighing him down like chains and before he can stop himself he's adding, "We're not  _that_ , you've got the wrong idea—"

"Uh," says the hostess, who clearly wasn't expecting a rebuttal.

"Table for three," says Sam firmly, coming to the rescue. "Defensive much?" he mutters to Dean as the hostess, who is probably regretting coming in tonight, leads them to a booth.

"Shut up," Dean hisses. He sits across from Cas and pretends to be absorbed in the menu so that he doesn't have to look the angel in the face. He then proceeds to flirt expertly and shamelessly with the pretty blonde waitress, who responds with what can only be described as tremendous enthusiasm.

Cas is quiet during the meal, toying with his glass of water. Occasionally he takes a sip—for appearances, Dean assumes—but mostly he just looks out the window into the darkness of the parking lot and doesn't say a word.

Maybe, Dean thinks later, if Cas had said something Dean would have been able to stop. Would've been able to bring himself to a halt. Would've been able to keep himself from spiraling deeper and deeper into the chasm he can't seem to stop digging. From ruining whatever it is— _was_ —between him and Cas ( _like you ruin everything, like you ruin Cas, it was only a matter of time, you fuck-up, you disloyal_ —).

"For  _fuck's_  sake, Dean," Sam finally whines, after the woman, giggling, clears the plates. "Are you  _trying_  to get her to fall in love with you? What—you want to just stop here, go buy a house and a flat-screen and settle down with her tonight?"

"Come on, Sam, you know I don't do long-term," says Dean, and it's a testament, he supposes, to his upbringing that his voice sounds completely light and casual, even as things keep twisting and breaking inside him. "I'm not the type that people fall in love with."

"Care for some dessert, hon?" The waitress is back. "Slice of apple pie?" She puts a hand on one hip and smiles, and Dean winks back and says, "That depends on whether  _you'd_  care for half a slice of apple pie—"

The thud is the sound of Cas slamming his water glass onto the formica tabletop. "I'm going to wait by the car," he says, and sweeps out of the restaurant, his trench coat rustling. Dean hears the billow of the fabric, feels it like a crack in his own bones.  _Everything is falling_ , he thinks.

"What's his problem?" says the waitress.

 _Me_ , Dean thinks.

"You still want the pie, sweetheart?"

"We just want the check, please," says Sam, when it becomes clear that Dean is not going to speak.

***

The ride home is mostly silent, with Sam trying with middling-to-no success to make conversation with first Dean and then Cas. In the garage, Dean has barely put Baby into park before Cas is out of the car and vanishing upstairs.

"Dean." Sam's hand descends on his shoulder as Dean tries to follow suit. "What the hell was that back there in the diner? What's going on?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Sammy." Dean shrugs Sam's hand off.

"Come on, Dean. Why is Cas upset?"

"He's just beat, Sam. Alright? We fought three werewolves today, in case you forgot."

Sam scowls. "He's not just tired, there's something  _wrong_ —"

Dean cuts him off. He's not willing to have this conversation right now, and even if he were, what the hell would he say? "I'm going to bed."

Cas isn't anywhere to be seen in the Bunker. Dean all but stomps down the hall, scowling so hard he thinks he might pull a muscle in his face. He can see light spilling out from under the door to Cas's room.

Alright, well, Dean probably deserves to sleep alone tonight, after dinner's fiasco.

He closes his door, instead of leaving it a hand's breadth ajar as he normally does. It's a petulant, childish gesture, and he knows it, but that doesn't keep him from doing it.

He doesn't lock it. But that doesn't seem to matter, because Cas never comes.

***

In the morning, he feels contrite, which is an understated way of saying that he feels like a real piece of shit. He shrugs on his robe and heads to the kitchen to put on some coffee. Cas doesn't need to drink coffee, but Dean can offer, and maybe that'll break the ice and they can talk and everything ( _you ruined it, you fucked it all up, what's wrong with you_ ) will be okay.

"Seen Cas?" he asks Sam, who's munching on Cheerios and doing a fucking sudoku puzzle or something out of the newspaper.

"Yeah, he was up pretty early," says Sam, frowning. "Left, said he had errands to run."

Dean can't help himself. "Errands? What errands?"

"I don't  _know_ , Dean," says Sam with an air of infinite patience. "But  _maybe_ , if it wouldn't strain you _too_ much, you could ask him when he gets back."

So Dean does just that—parks himself in the foyer with a magazine and a beer, and when Cas shows up around three in the afternoon—three in the freaking _afternoon_ , what kind of fucking errand was he on—he looks up and says, "Hey."

"Hello, Dean." Cas descends the steps, looking a little wary.

"Sam said you were on an errand."

"Yes."

"And?"

"And...it was a successful errand."

Dean laughs, but there's no humor in his voice. His chest aches with the distance between them; he wants to get to his feet, cross it, fold Cas into his arms. Wants to say  _I missed you_  and  _I'm sorry_  and  _come back_. He tightens his grip on the magazine's crinkling edges. "Alright, well, fine. Glad it was successful."

Cas looks away. "I should..."

"Yeah, you should." Dean doesn't even know what he's saying anymore. His eyes are stinging—why are his eyes stinging? He blinks a couple of times and looks determinedly down at the magazine, which is open to a photo ad for some new smartphone model. ( _REALLY TALK TO HIM_ , the page booms at him in sleek white font. Fucking perfect.) After a long, long moment during which it gets harder and harder to breathe, he hears Cas's footsteps fade from the room. Leaving.

***

"What's up with you and Cas?"

"Nothing," Dean snaps, way too quickly, he reflects a moment later, for it not to be suspicious.

Sam's eyes bore into him. "Right."

"Shut up."

"You're being childish. I'm not an idiot—"

"You sure about that?"

"—I can see that something's going on. You've barely spoken for the last couple days, even when you're in the same room."

They've avoided more than that. The second night back from Oklahoma, Dean left his door open, but Cas never showed, and something nasty and snakelike reared its ugly head inside Dean's chest and said  _alright, fine, be that way you fucker_  and he's been sleeping alone and with the door shut ever since.

"Dean?"

"Alright," says Dean in exasperation. "Yes, we're having—I dunno, he's being weird, I don't know why he's running off like this." Cas has been gone every morning for the past couple days, and several of the afternoons as well. Dean hasn't asked him about it again, and Cas hasn't proffered any details. Which is fine. Just fine.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No,  _Samantha_ , I don't."

***

Dean barely sees Cas over the course of the next week. He half-considers getting up earlier, trying to catch him before he heads out on whatever "errands" are somehow keeping him occupied for four or five hours every day. But he doesn't. What would be the point? Whatever it is, it's clear that it's not something Cas want to share. And if Cas doesn't want to talk about it, well, Dean is damn well not going to ask.

 _Doesn't matter_ , he tells himself at night, arms crossed so tightly over his chest he can feel his hands going numb. Whatever they'd had, whatever precious thing had coalesced between them over the course of those two terrifyingly wondrous weeks, it's clearly over. Cracked beyond repair.

The worst part is that he knows he has only himself to blame.

***

They catch a case in Missouri—vampires, it sounds like. Straightforward.

"We could leave it for someone else to handle," Sam points out, but not in protest, more in the manner of someone casually maneuvering into interrogation mode.

"Nah, I need to get out of the bunker," says Dean, shoving socks into his duffel. "Going stir-crazy cooped up in here."

Sam, who mastered the art of the eloquent silence at the age of eight, says nothing for a long minute.

"It's not that far," Dean says, almost defiantly. "Weekend outing, we'll be back in time for you to freeze your balls off running, Monday morning."

Sam narrows his eyes. "You gonna ask Cas to come?"

Up to this moment, Dean hasn't really figured that out. In truth, he wants Cas to come—is hoping, maybe, that working alongside Cas will break the silence that's grown frigidly between them, give him enough acceleration to escape whatever solidifying gulf he's accidentally found himself on the wrong side of. Cases mean motel rooms and investigations and teamwork, and if he's trapped in a room with Cas maybe he'll be able to bring himself to talk about all of it, to—to— _apologize, you need to apologize_ —maybe he can fix this. Fix something.

"Yeah, was planning on telling him right after you," he lies. "Not like the dude needs to pack a bag."

Sam grunts and goes to get his things. Dean swings the duffel onto his shoulder and heads off in search of Cas.

He finds the angel in the library, slowly turning the pages of a book that looks a little too modern to be from the bunker's shelves.

"Whatcha up to?" says Dean, and it's too casual, too careless, the way he says it, but it's all he's got.

Cas jumps a little, and his fingers twitch over some of the scattered sheets of paper on the table, so that they shift and obscure the book from view. The motion is so well done that it almost looks accidental. Almost. "Nothing. Just a little light reading."

"Right." Dean doesn't have the energy to accuse Cas of being shifty. "Sam and I found a case in Missouri. Nest of vampires. Want to come?"

"My car is out of gas," Cas says apologetically, "so—" He hesitates.

Of course. Cas doesn't want to go on a case with Dean. Why would he? He clearly doesn't want to be near Dean, anymore. Still— _car is out of gas_ , Dean's a little insulted that he couldn't come up with a better excuse. Of course, it's probably true, given how much driving in and out of town Cas has been doing, but—has he forgotten the existence of gas stations?

"It's fine. Forget it then. Sam and I can handle it on our own."

Cas, who has opened his mouth as if to speak again, looks confused. "Dean, I—"

"I said it's fine, Cas. Do whatever the fuck you want, I'll see you on Monday." He turns away, unable to stand the look of mingled frustration and strange hurt on Cas's face, and beelines out of the room.

Sam is leaning against the passenger seat of the Impala. "Where's—"

"He's not interested." Dean cuts his brother off practically mid-word, throwing his duffel into the trunk.

"What? This is Cas, you really expect me to believe he's refusing to help? What's going on?"

"I said he's not coming, alright? Are you going to get in or not?"

Sam huffs, but slides into the passenger seat. " _Dean_ —"

Dean turns the stereo volume up as loud as it'll go.

***

They wrap up the case fairly quickly, and they end up getting back to the bunker Sunday evening. Cas's car isn't in the driveway, and Dean swears softly to himself as they pull up. So the fucker managed to figure out how to operate a gas pump after all, did he?

Cas shows up a half hour later, actually. He's not wearing his coat, or his suit jacket. He's in his fucking dress shirt, and the sleeves—they're fucking  _rolled up_.

He looks surprised to see them sitting in the war room.

"Hey, Cas," says Sam. Dean just glowers.

"Hello, Sam. The case went well?"

"Yeah, fine. Could've used your help, though."

"I would've liked to come," says Cas, and between the blatant untruth of that and the smug  _aha_  look on Sam's face Dean snaps.

"Yeah, well," he grits out, shoving to his feet, "seems like you kept pretty busy on your own. What, you find a nice girl to spend the weekend with?"

Sam's face goes from vindicated to exasperated in the way that only Sam's face can, but Dean ignores it in favor of staring Cas down. Because Cas actually looks a little pissed, now. Which—good. Dean digs a little deeper.

"Feel free to move into her place if you want," he says. He barely recognizes the sneering tone of his own voice—god, who  _is_  he right now? What is he  _doing_? How could he have ever thought he deserved to be with Cas—he, Dean Winchester, broken, burnt-out shell of a man? ( _You're empty, Dean. You're not—you'll never be—you'll never have—)_

He jumps to his feet and goes to his room. Slams the door and spends the night being awake and miserable.

***

When Cas leaves the next morning, Dean is lying down in the backseat of the Impala, where he'd crawled at some point before dawn, in an attempt to feel less alone while simultaneously continuing to be wretched. He listens to the low rumble of the Continental as it pulls away, and makes a decision.

It's not hard to follow Cas; that freaking car stands out like a sore thumb. Granted, so does Baby, but Dean keeps well back, and he expects Cas doesn't know how to notice this kind of tail anyway, not while he's driving.

So he stays about a block behind, and in fact almost misses the Continental, which is now parked on the side of the street. The vehicle is empty, but there's no sign of Cas anywhere.

"Where'd you go?" Dean mutters, frowning. He parks in the lot across the street, and it's only when he recognizes the grocery store to which the parking lot belongs that he realizes where he is.

The glass store still has its lovely sculptures and hanging decorations visible from the windows, but there is most definitely a "Closed" sign hanging in the doorway. And yet it's the closest thing to Cas's car, and the location can't be a coincidence.

Dean waits, chewing his bottom lip. Half an hour passes. He's about to pull out and circle the block when two people come around the corner, walking briskly down the sidewalk.

One of them is Cas. The other is a slim woman in a dark red coat, a takeout coffee cup in one gloved hand, her collar turned up against the wind. Dean's heart begins to pound. They reach the door and the woman hands her coffee cup to Cas and begins fumbling for what Dean guesses are the keys. Cas says something and she smiles with a white glint of teeth; even at this distance, Dean can tell that she's pretty.

_What the fuck?_

He's gripping the steering wheel so tightly his palms are starting to sting. He thinks of all the time Cas has been spending away from the Bunker. He thinks of the weekend which just passed, of Cas arriving late at the Bunker,  _half-undressed_  for crying out loud.

He thinks of what he'd said in that diner.

 _We're not together_.

"What the fuck," he says, softly, aloud into the empty air. So this is it. The nasty, snakelike thing spits acidic contempt at him.  _This is how your grand love story ends, Dean._  Fuck him for thinking he could have kept it safe. For thinking he and Cas could—could ever—

Part of him just wants to slink home and sulk in solitude, but another, stronger part of him is itching for a fight. Or—not a fight, exactly, but to rip the band-aid off. To have  _out_  with it, and damn the consequences.

He squirms in the driver's seat for a moment, torn.

"Fuck it," he mutters, turning Baby off and wrestling the door open.

***

Inside the store, Cas and the woman are standing facing each other. Cas is holding her coat—of course he took her coat, the fucking gentleman—and her hand is on his elbow. Her hand is on his  _elbow_ —some monster, enraged and snarling, roars up in Dean's gut, and he can barely see straight under the sudden, possessive torrent of  _mine_ ,  _mine_ ,  _mine_.

He fights it off. Cas isn't his, not anymore—that much is clear. This isn't about that.

The bell jingles and they both look round. Cas looks startled—panicked, almost. He shoots a quick glance at the woman, who is staring at Dean with a raised eyebrow, pulling off a pair of black velvet gloves. She's dark-skinned, with waves of heavy, glossy hair and a tiny diamond stud in her nose.

She's—fuck, she's not just pretty, she's  _stunning_. A wave of jealousy rolls over Dean.

He leans against the doorframe. "Gonna introduce me, Cas?"

"Dean," says Cas. He darts another look at the woman. "What are you doing here?"

"Hey, someone new in your life, I should probably meet her, right? Gotta give my blessing. What's your name, sweetheart?"

"Not your sweetheart," she says sharply. "Castiel, this is—?"

"Yes," says Castiel miserably. "Dean, this is Chalisa."

"Pleased to meet you," she says, though she doesn't sound it. "Castiel has mentioned you."

"Oh, he's _mentioned_ me? That's fantastic. Good to know there's still honor among roommates." Dean stresses the word _roommates_ , turns his head to look mockingly at Cas.

"Chalisa," says Cas softly, "would you mind—"

She pats his arm—again, the monster, beating the walls of its prison, the scream of _mine_ ricocheting off Dean's ribcage—and says, "I'll be in the back."

 _I'll bet you will_ , Dean thinks viciously. He crosses his arms, watches Chalisa take her coffee and coat and thread her way gracefully around the glassware to vanish through a door in the rear of the shop.

"What do you want, Dean?" says Cas. He sounds tired.

"Just thought I'd see where you've been skulking off to," says Dean.

"Well, now you know." Cas meets his eyes defiantly. "You didn't need to worry that I was doing something illicit."

"Oh, I wasn't  _worried_. And good thing, too. Why waste the brain space, it seems like you've done great for yourself. She's gorgeous, by the way. Congratulations."

"Chalisa is a very skilled glassblower," Cas says slowly, and maybe he's about to say something more, but Dean doesn't let him.

"Oh yeah? And what else can she bl—"

He doesn't get any farther because Cas is suddenly  _right there_ , right up in his face, inches away, his eyes like ice chips, his face drawn in anger.

When Dean was three, he and his mom and dad were caught outside in a lightning storm—it's another memory the soul bomb had dredged up. The storm was over in a few minutes and nothing was ruined except their picnic blanket, but Dean can remember the sound of the wind whipping over the dry grass, the crackle in the air, the _scent_ of it—rain and ozone and raw power. He smells that again now, a wild, earthy, electric smell. The glass mobiles in the window shiver.

Cas doesn't touch him, doesn't even incline his body toward Dean, but his voice is harder than steel as he says, very quietly, "Dean Winchester, you and I are friends, and I will always care for you, but you  _will_  show respect, if not to me, then to Chalisa. And if  _you_  value our friendship you will leave, now, before you say something that can't be unsaid."

He's too close, he's  _too fucking close_ , Dean can smell the lightning and the fury and the grace of him and he wants—he wants—he  _wants_ —and there's nothing to be done, nothing he can say to fix this, nothing.

Dean leaves.

***

Dean successfully avoids Cas for the next three days, through a combination of hiding out in his room, listening carefully before coming around corners, and drinking himself shit-faced.

Anyway, Cas is barely at the bunker, these days. Off at that stupid store with Chalisa the glassblower, doing who knows what. Learning to blow glass, maybe. Dean snorts into his half-finished fifth of whiskey.

"Who fucking takes off their coat first and  _then_  their gloves, anyway?" he mutters, letting his head thump back against the headboard of his bed.

Then one morning Sam all but kicks down the door and storms into the room.

"Dean," he fumes. "Cas didn't come home last night. So help me, you are going to tell me what the fuck is going on."

Dean, who is pretty sure he is somehow both drunk _and_ on the receiving end of the hangover to end all hangovers, groans into his pillow. He really doesn't need to hear that, he doesn't want to think about that. He doesn't need to guess where Cas would have spent the night. He's pretty sure he knows. Of course, not wanting to think about it doesn't mean he can stop his imagination from supplying a healthy stream of lurid, full-color scenarios. "Go 'way."

"Dean!"

"GO AWAY."

"Dean, I have a set of speakers and a playlist of songs I  _know_  you hate, so for the last time, you will get your head out of your ass and tell me—"

" _I LOVE HIM, OKAY_?" Dean yells. He buries his face in his pillow.

"Yeah, I love him too, he's—oh.  _Oh_."

"Fucking happy now?"

"Well, no—"

"I love him and we were—we were together, it was  _good_ , but then I fucked it all up and he's—he's off blowing—and—"

"Excuse me, he's off  _what_?"

"—and he's better off that way and I should be fucking pleased for him but there's no point, Sam, there's no point to anything, and what did I think was going to happen—"

" _Dean_. For crying out loud."

Dean turns his head, and yep, Sam is wearing the same exasperated expression he's been sporting like a second skin for most of December. "Dean, I'm not going to say I'm—well, I guess I'm a  _little_  surprised, but honestly? It's been clear for _years_ how Cas feels about you, whether you let yourself realize it or not, and I don't know what you think you fucked up, but if I know Cas  _at all_ , how  _he_  feels hasn't changed."

"Just go, Sam," Dean croaks. He screws his eyes shut for a moment, but he can still see everything. Chalisa with her ungloved hand on Cas's arm. Cas with his bare forearms glowing in the light.

"Fine," says Sam, heading for the door. "You're not even sober, anyway. Sleep it off. But tomorrow is Christmas Eve and you  _will_  make up with Cas, because I'm  _not_  letting your emotional constipation ruin the holidays."

***

Dean, inexplicably exhausted, sleeps on-and-off through the afternoon and most of the night. At some point he wakes to a weight on the bed. It's Cas, fully dressed, sitting on the edge of the mattress. He has a bag slung over one shoulder and a cardboard box the size of a microwave in his lap.

It's stupid, but Dean reaches out before he can stop himself. Just to make sure this is real. He touches Cas's knee but can't summon the courage to do anything more.

Cas's face is only half-visible in the semi-darkness. "Dean, I'm sorry for losing my temper the other day. This...it's been hard. And I know it's my fault, that it's something _I've_ done, and I accept that, but it doesn't make it any less hard to know that—to know that you don't—that you no longer—" He swallows, looks away.

Dean frowns, trying to drag his mind out of the bleariness of alcohol-fueled sleep. He can feel the solidity of Cas's knee beneath his hand, but maybe this is still a dream, because what Cas is saying isn't making sense.

"And I thought—I thought I could do this for you, Dean, do it the normal way, I wanted to, but..." He sighs. "But I seem to have done it wrong, to have failed. And I couldn't bring myself to give up—I wanted to see it through to the end—but I suppose there isn't any point now, anyway."

Oh. This, Dean does get. This is a breakup speech. A couple weeks late, but hey, better than never, right? A mad urge to laugh bubbles up in his chest. He pulls his hand back, curls his fist against his chest and tries to breathe evenly.

Cas looks down, toying with the fabric of his coat in a way that's startlingly human. "I'll leave today. You deserve to not be uncomfortable for Christmas. You...well, you did save the world, after all. Thank you, Dean."

And he's gone.

***

The hangover is still lingering when Dean finally drags himself out of bed in the late afternoon. He almost trips on the stupid cardboard box—Cas forgot it, left it lying in the middle of the floor. Dean shoves it over toward the wall with his foot, too tired to even swear.

 _I'm leaving today. I'm leaving today. I'm leaving today._  It plays on loop, in time to the pounding rhythm inside his skull. He pushes it away, locks it down. He can't think about that now.

"Gee, you're alive," says Sam unsympathetically. "I haven't seen Cas at all today."

"I saw him this morning," Dean mumbles. "Uh—we talked a bit, he said he had more errands, that he'd be here tomorrow." It's a lie, but it serves its purpose; Sam beams and spends the next several hours fussing around the bunker, tidying away papers and putting up decorations while Dean nurses a mug of cold coffee in a corner.

He has another cup after dinner, for all the good it does, while Sam, the heartless bastard, starts working through a six-pack of beer. Dean makes himself stay, even though the smell of alcohol is enough to make his stomach turn right now. He feels like shit, all things considered. _Good_ , he thinks glumly. He is miserable and in pain and he deserves it. He is determinedly  _not_  thinking about Cas.

Sam is gleefully stacking presents on the war room table, sorting them into piles. Sam's pile has three packages from Dean, the shiny wrapping paper beautifully pleated and folded because Dean takes  _pride_  in his work, goddammit, even if his world is falling apart at the seams. A box from Jody and the girls had arrived in the mail a few days ago, so there's some tissue paper parcels as well. And there's a small paper bag with Sam's name scrawled on it in achingly familiar handwriting. Dean pretends not to notice it.

"I'm going to open one now," Sam announces, after quite a number of beers.

Dean snorts. "You don't have a lot to spare, Sam."

"I don't care. It's Christmas Eve." Sam drags the paper bag across the table toward him.

Dean tries to look away, but curiosity gets the better of him and he can't help watching as Sam extracts something small from the paper bag. It's a keychain—small, unassuming, just a few beads of colored glass and a beautifully tooled piece of leather.

Sam whistles, his fingers curled reverently around the thing. He peers inside the bag and pulls out a folded notecard. Dean can't take his eyes off the keychain, the jagged symbols etched into the leather strip, the colors that swirl in the lumpy glass beads. Something nags at him.  _Maybe it's the fact that_ you _don't have a gift_ , says a nasty voice inside his head.

"He says he made it himself," says Sam in surprise. "Says the symbols are protective." He looks at the keychain again. "Damn, it's gorgeous. Shit—maybe he wanted to be here when I opened it." He drops the keychain back into the bag, glances guiltily at Dean. "Don't tell him."

"I don't think he'll mind," says Dean hollowly. He has to tell Sam, doesn't he. That Cas is gone. That Dean drove Cas out, because Cas couldn't stand to stick around any longer.

Sam spins the paper bag in his fingers. Then his eyes slide over to Dean's pile and he frowns. "Where's your gift?"

Dean almost laughs. "Yeah, I think it's safe to say he doesn't feel like giving me one."

"For fuck's sake, Dean," Sam says, glaring. His cheeks are flushed from the alcohol. "Cas wouldn't give me a present and not give you one. Where is it?"

Dean opens his mouth to say yes, Cas would absolutely do that, because unlike Sam, Dean has thoroughly trashed any chance he had of meriting a good morning from Cas, let alone a fucking  _gift_. But then he closes his mouth again, because actually, as much as he hates to admit it, Sam is right. Cas is a lot of things, but petty isn't one of them.

"I don't know," he says instead, begrudgingly.

Sam gets unsteadily to his feet. "Maybe I missed it," he mutters, fumbling through the stacked presents. Dean is feeling too wrecked to even make a quip about Sam not being able to hold his liquor.

"I mean, his packaging doesn't exactly stand out," Sam is mumbling.

"What?" says Dean sharply.

Sam looks at him. "Well—he just put the keychain in this bag, look. I mean, he's never had Christmas, let's be honest, he probably doesn't know about wrapping paper—"

Cas, in his room that morning.  _I'm leaving today._

Oh.  _Oh_.

Dean stands up and heads for his room.

The box is weighty in his hands as he lifts it onto the table. Cas hadn't even bothered taping it shut. Dean yanks out handful after handful of crumpled newspapers—either Cas wanted to make extracting the contents an ordeal, or whatever's inside is fragile, and he panics for a moment as he remembers how he'd kicked it to the side, that morning.

Sam, who'd trailed him down the hallway, is leaning against the door.

"What is it?" he yawns. "What's inside?"

"I don't—" Dean breaks off as his hand closes around something cool and smooth. He lifts it out.

It's a vase.

It's ovalish, asymmetrical, with an narrow mouth and a striated pattern in emerald greens and olives and warm browns; it looks like a slightly smaller version of the vases that had been on display in the glass-blowing studio. It's beautiful—the colors, the irregular pattern, the flowing shape of it.

"Holy shit, dude." Sam sounds incredulous. "And I thought my keychain was great. Can I?"

Dean numbly hands over the vase. He picks up the box instead, so that he can have something to do with his hands while he watches Sam hold the vase up to the lamplight. How the hell had Cas afforded something like that? Or maybe—his stomach turns—maybe it was a gift from Chalisa, who after all is an artist, someone who makes things with her hands instead of destroying them, someone who can  _create_  for Cas instead of tear him down—

"Dean?"

But if it was a gift from Chalisa, why would Cas be giving it to him—why would Cas be giving  _anything_  to him—

"Dean." Sam's voice is strangled, awed.

"What?"

"Dean, it's signed with his name."

"...what?"

"It's signed with his name." Sam turns the vase over, shows the stamped signature that stands out in molded relief on the bottom of the vase. "Cas made this."

Dean barely hears the soft thump of the box hitting the floor.

Everything falls into place.

***

"Dean,  _what_  is going on?" Sam's voice blares out from the phone in Dean's hand—out from the phone, because Dean had bolted from the bunker so fast—snatching his coat from the floor, a wrapped box from the bottom of his sock drawer, his car keys from the top of the dresser—that Sam hadn't been able to keep up, let alone have a conversation.

"He  _was_  learning to blow," Dean says incoherently, steering Baby around yet another deserted street corner, "he was learning to fucking blow glass, Sam, he was making our Christmas presents, that whole fucking time, fucking Chalisa must have been giving him _lessons_ —"

"You're making zero sense. Is that because I'm drunk?"

"Drink some water, Sammy. I gotta go."

He throws the Impala into park outside the glassware shop and strides up to the window. The "Closed" sign is up, but the lights are on and he can see Chalisa behind the counter, scribbling on a pad of paper. She looks up when he knocks. Her eyeroll speaks volumes.

Dean tries the door. It's not locked.

"Where is he?" he says breathlessly, coming up to the counter. The bells over the door jingle as it swings shut behind him.

"Not here," she returns. "No matter what you thought."

Dean flushes. "I'm sorry," he says.

"It's not me you hurt." She rests her chin in her hands. "He was so very dedicated that I thought you must have been something incredible."

"Yeah, well," says Dean with a short laugh, "he has terrible taste."

"He came in for a class," she says, "and stayed afterwards to ask for extra lessons. I don't usually work with students so extensively, and he couldn't pay the fees in any case, but there was—something about him."

"You have no idea, trust me. Please, do you know where—"

Her eyes are like flint. "He threw himself into the work, both inside and outside of the workshop. He was very particular. He knew exactly what he wanted."

Dean closes his eyes. The words are like blows.

"He was one of the best students I've ever had."

Dean opens his eyes. "Chalisa, I'm really—look, I misunderstood, I completely misunderstood everything that was going on, and I saw him walking with you and I thought—and then he was gone all night and I thought—but it doesn't matter, I have to find him, tell him I'm  _so fucking sorry_ —"

"He  _was_  here that night," she says, still calm and cool as the wintry darkness outside. "For the annealing. It requires close supervision."

Dean doesn't have a fucking clue what that is, but he nods anyway.  _I'm leaving today. I'm leaving today_.

"Anyway," she says musingly, "he's not my type."

"Oh," says Dean, feeling more foolish by the second. "Er—not into guys, huh?"

"I'm not into guys," she says—and Dean's been in a lot of fights over his thirty-odd years but he's never faced anything as sharp as her voice is at that instant—"who are in love  _with other people_."

He must have flinched then, or done something else to hint at the state he's in, because her gaze finally softens, and she says, "During breaks we'd walk to the park six blocks over. He liked the lights."

"Thanks," Dean chokes out. His voice is a cracked whisper. It's all he can manage.

At the door he stops for a moment, clutching at the frame. "The vase is beautiful," he chokes out. "You taught him well."

He can feel her smile from across the room. "Go get him, tiger."

***

The park is a small thing, just a couple of benches and some trees, but someone's festooned said trees with yards and yards of Christmas lights and turned the place into some kind of blazing fairyland. Cas isn't hard to spot—he's standing in the exact middle, near one of the larger trees, looking up at the lights, his hands loose by his sides.

He has to have heard Dean coming, but he doesn't turn around. So Dean just keeps going, grabs Cas by the shoulders and spins him around, crushes him into a hug.

Cas's hands stay loose by his sides. Which, okay, maybe Dean deserves.

"Cas," says Dean, letting go of him, and he had rehearsed a speech, however shitty, in the car, but he's now forgotten it completely, and everything comes rushing out of him in a torrent, instead. "Cas, I'm so sorry—I'm so, so sorry—I've been such a huge asshole, I've been  _such_  a dick, but I thought, I thought you were angry with me—"

"Oh," says Cas eloquently. "I thought you were angry with me."

"I wasn't—well, I was, but that wasn't on  _you_ , that was just me not being able to handle my own fucking mess, and then you kept  _leaving_  and I didn't know what to say and I just kept making it  _worse_  . And I wanted you to _stay_ , I _wanted_ you to spend the night, I _wanted_ you to come on that hunt with us, and I thought _you_ didn't want to, didn't want _me_ , and I thought you and Chalisa—and I know she was teaching you how to blow glass, I know that  _now_ , she explained, and I'm the  _fucking worst_ , I'm so, so, _so fucking sorry_ , and I knew I was screwing it all up and I didn't know how to fix it, and you were gone all night—"

"That was for the annealing," says Cas, and Dean lets out a choked laugh.

"Yeah, so I keep hearing."

"You thought Chalisa and I were lovers?" says Cas slowly.

"Uh," says Dean. "Well, if you want to put it that way. I guess I was mostly trying  _not_  to think about it, but I mean, all I knew was that I'd probably ruined everything, and when I saw her, I just—"

Cas's arms finally move. Slowly he curls his hands into the front of Dean's coat. "You thought," he says again, even more slowly, and there's that ozone smell in the air again, "that there could  _ever be anyone else for me, ever_ _?_ "

"I—" Dean starts, and then the breath is knocked out of him as his back hits the tree trunk. Cas pins him effortlessly, his eyes dark, his voice all frost and fire and gravel.

"Dean," he growls, the word low and rough and furious, "I cannot control how  _you_  feel, or what  _you_  want, but there is  _no one else_  I will ever love the way I love you."

"You made a vase for me," Dean chokes, terrified and elated in equal measure.  _I love you_ , he thinks.  _I love you. I love you_. "You made a vase, it's the most beautiful—the best gift I ever—it's just like my mom's—"

"Yes, a  _gift_ , Dean, because you said that was how humans do it, it took such a  _long_  time, but I was patient, I was willing to wait for it, I did it the human way, and I am  _still_  here,  _with_   _you_ , if you want me, do you understand?"

Dean clutches his wrists. It's like hanging on to a comet. "And you—you don't hate me, even after—"

"Nothing," says Cas, and just like that his voice has gone from steel to silk, "is ruined that cannot be fixed, if that's what you want."

"That's— _yes_ , of course that's what I—oh, come  _here_."

***

Much, much later, they're sitting in the car, and Dean puffing warm breaths onto his chilled hands—Cas's hair had been roughly the same temperature as the rest of the night, and twining his fingers in it hadn't kept them from growing numb. But there is warmth opening up in his throat and chest, a soft butterfly-winged warmth that refuses to be chased away by the cold.

"Look under your seat," he tells Cas, who had, after many long kisses, subsided from a terrifying angelic entity of lightning and smoke and wind and power into normal Cas.

Cas fumbles around under the passenger seat and pulls out the wrapped package that had spent weeks languishing as deep down in the sock drawer as Dean could drunkenly cram it.

Dean clears his throat nervously.

"I have—other presents for you too. Boring shit. But this is the real one."

"It's beautiful." Cas touches the fanned-out edge of the paper, holding the box as if it's a large and precious egg. "Thank you, Dean."

A choked-out laugh bursts from Dean's chest. "Dude, you're supposed to open it. The present is what's inside."

"Oh." Cas blinks down at it. "But it's so lovely."

Another warm butterfly unfolds itself in Dean's throat. "Cas, I'll—I'll wrap everything you own like that, if you want."

Cas smiles and runs his thumbnail along the edge of the paper, slitting the tape. Dean shivers and shoves his hands into his pockets, watching.

"Dean, this—" Cas swallows hard and looks up from the box in his hands. "This is too much."

"It's just a digital compact. Twelve megapixels." Long hours spent with a patient salesman have given him the necessary vocabulary to be self-deprecating. "You know—macro mode, four levels of optical zoom, it's nothing fancy. But I thought—maybe you could start making your memories physical. We can get some batteries into it, and—"

He doesn't get any further, because then Cas's mouth on his, and Cas's hands are on the sides of his face—his hands are warm, how are they _warm_?—and then Dean's hands are tangled in Cas's coat, which there is  _entirely_  too much of, and—

Cas pulls back, panting.

"There are other ways to make things physical, too," he says.

"Great pick-up line," says Dean, because his mouth doesn't know to quit when it's ahead.

Cas runs his thumb along Dean's bottom lip. "Maybe I'll finally teach you respect, while I'm at it."

 _Oh, fuck_. Dean aches with want, aches everywhere, thrills all along his body with it. Screw taking it slow. It's been too many  _damn_  years.

"Let's get home," he breathes. "We've got all night."

"Only half the night, now," says Cas, merciless bastard that he is. "You were slow to find me."

"Won't happen again, trust me."

"And you have a lot to atone for. You  _were_  a huge asshole, now that I reflect back on it.  _And_  a dick."

"Yeah—see above."

"Merry Christmas, Dean."

"Merry Christmas, Cas."

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this was my first crack at doing an established relationship fic! I got way more into couple!Dean/Cas than I was expecting to, but that didn't stop me from making everything as angsty and guilt-ridden as my sleep-deprived brain possibly could.


End file.
